Pointillism for Astronauts

Is there a point to all this?

Some sense of release hidden behind years of

Doubtful ventures into nothing.

Can I outstretch these fastened wings,

And search for some greater feeling,

Than hopelessly just being?

Must I have my own permission,

To evolve outside this vacuum?

Become anything more than just myself?

Help starts in the home, but I can't help asking:

Where do I go from here,

After letting go of everything?

Does something better lie in wait,

Some cleverly disguised outlier?

Or am I only to be met by pain, my solemn-sought companion?

Is there anything besides empty space,

Behind spinning thoughts and broken canvases?

Or are we alone here, at the end of the line?